I make variations on this character often when I write. I always pictured her in the Sherlock universe though. So here she is.
"Thank you for coming."
"It was my pleasure. If you need company again, don't hesitate to let me know."
"I don't think I will."
The double entendre is thick in our voices as we say goodbye. Against my will, my heart skips a beat when we shake hands, and I climb into the taxi without another word. "The Diogenes Club." I tell the driver, and we set off. Some desperate part of me turns around and lets me catch one final glimpse of the curly head before we turn a corner. I find myself smiling, and I shake it away. I place my face into my hands and let out a single sob as I fight tears back. I screwed up. I did everything right except the hardest and most important part. Of all the things my boss has asked me to do in addition to my job, this was the one thing that I could not screw up, and I did. I remember his words exactly. "Dinah, my brother has been extremely tense lately, and it is debilitating his thinking capacity. Perhaps you could go relieve his tension with some...other activities while his flatmate is out of town? I just ask that you take one extra precaution. He is a very charismatic man. Don't become attached to Sherlock Holmes. It will tear you apart."
And I did just that.
FUCK.
But it was so easy to. From the moment I walked in the door, I was struck by his intelligence and charm. He seems out of place here, more Victorian than modern, but he fits this place at the same time. He was slightly annoyed that I was there, cursing "Mycroft's meddling" in an incredibly verbose way that was incredibly sexy. His voice sends shivers down my spine. After that, he was thankful for everything that I did. The look in his eyes right after I kissed him for the first time made my heart stop. He tested me with that kiss, just as he tested me when I walked in the door. He had heard from his brother that I was smart, and he wanted to test me on it. He profiled me to a T, and I then had to explain how he did it. Apparently, I passed his test with flying colours because he let me in.
I was thankful that he didn't repeat everything that he read from me. I was wearing a short sleeve shirt, so I knew he could see the various scars on my arms, all self-inflicted. He saw my recovering PTSD, my abusive history, my time on the streets, and my suicidal tendencies, and he took it in his stride. That was the moment when I started liking him. Most people started battering me with questions about my past, but Sherlock Holmes did no such thing. He didn't treat me differently by what he saw, and I respected him for that. I immediately decided that after this was over, I would keep in touch with him. He seemed like a nice guy.
I retract that statement now. I can't see him again. I couldn't bear it. I pull out a paper out of my purse and begin filling in the blanks. It's a report that I have to give Mr. Holmes about what happened. I write in capital letters in the comments, "YOUR BROTHER IS A WILDCAT IN BED", which was totally true. I expected Sherlock to be controlling, which he was, and it had been an absolute pleasure in itself to watch Sherlock's tightly wound control come undone. The way he had growled my name and tugged at my hair was insanity building, and was by far the sexiest thing I had ever heard in my entire life. I add as a side note, "he has a sensitive neck". There were some love bites on his neck that wouldn't fade for a few days. I also write, "Your brother has some of the greatest stamina I've ever seen in a partner." I was almost unconscious by the time he was done, and I had barely enough strength to pull a blanket over us.
The report asks me to list what happened after. I simply write, "cuddled, had breakfast, shower, left", which is an abridged version of the truth.
We fell asleep after, and I woke up curled up next to him. We were still naked, which was somehow incredibly normal. Most people wouldn't say that after waking up to a stranger. Sherlock was half awake and tracing the mess of scars all over my back. I realized that his analytic brain making him whisper details about how I got every scar, and I felt more and more self-conscious with every word. About a slash that ran the length of my spine, he said, "Knife, two inches deep, healed without stitches, twenty years ago, hunched over and crying." About a spiraling scar that looped around my right bicep, he said, "Bullwhip, hit with a force over 200 Newtons, cut to bone, twenty years old at least." About a burn on my left torso, he growled angrily, "Iron, at least twenty five years ago, held for ten seconds, almost third degree burn." He got to the names carved below my right shoulder blade, he said, "Family members. The top one being your father, the other two names your brothers."
"Right as always, Sherlock, but you don't need to remind me that the scars are hideous. I know I look disgusting."
All he did was press his lips to my shoulder and say softly, "I don't use words like that. But when I look at your scars, I see a lifetime of hardship and sacrifice. Any ordinary person would think them ugly. But they don't see the sheer fascination you produce in my mind. Any "ordinary" person would have been dead or insane from everything you have been through. But you went through it all, survived, and came out stronger than you were before. You, my dear, are absolutely extra-ordinary, and if I believed in using such plebeian terms, I'd say that you are beautiful."
I wipe a tear away as I recall that moment. He was the first person to not recoil from the multitude of scars that littered my body, and I had actually silently cried in sheer joy. We cuddled closer and I think it was that moment when I fell for him. HARD. Attachment was one thing, but I fell head over heels in love with him. We fit together like two pieces of a perfect puzzle, his forehead pressed into my hair and his arm draped over my side. I honestly believed I could spend the rest of my life like this. I really could have. I knew that I had screwed up then.
I made him breakfast without either of us getting dressed. Not that I minded. He looked good naked. His skin had an almost ethereal glow in the morning sun, and his hair looked like spilt ink against it. Dear god, that man was beautiful. He ate what I cooked him, which apparently is very rare, and started on an experiment. Involving acid. STARK NAKED. I dragged him into the bathroom to have a shower, and he dragged me into the shower with him. Again, not that I minded. It took forever to wash my hair, which he didn't mind. We got dressed, he braided my wet hair, and I got ready to leave.
When I get to the club, I give Mr. Holmes my report. He hands me in return some photos of Sherlock and I that must have been taken with a hidden camera. "It appears that your endeavors were successful." He said with a smirk. All I need to do is take a photo, fold it up, and put it in my pocket. He realizes in an instant. "I'm sorry, Dinah. He's near incapable of loving." He says softly. "Even less than I."
"Don't send me there again, sir." I say with some difficulty. "I won't want to leave." Maybe that's why Sherlock said that he wouldn't need me again. He knew I wouldn't have the balls to come back. That bastard.
"As you wish. Thank you."
The moment I get to my own desk, I place the picture of Sherlock and I on it. With a tear running down m cheek, I kiss my fingers and press them to his face. "Nice loving you, Sherlock Holmes." I whisper. "I curse myself that I did, but I won't forget it." Then, I wipe my face, shut down my heart once again, and get back to work.